POV: Beth
Morning arrives gray and unforgiving.
My body aches from cold sleep on sand. Smoke from our dying fire lingers like ghost fingers. Alaric stands near the shoreline, shoving the battered little boat back into the shallows as if rest is luxury we can’t afford. His shirt is still open from the storm, torn at the shoulder. Saltwater dries white across his skin like paint.
He doesn’t ask if I’m ready.
He just gestures toward the boat with his chin. “Move.”
Exhaustion sits heavy behind my eyes, but I climb in without argument. I have no other world left to stand on.
Alaric rows this time, strong strokes pulling us into deeper water with ease that unsettles me. Muscles in his forearms flex beneath old scars, each movement smooth as if he was born rowing through storms.
I wrap my arms around knees, trying to appear unaffected. But every wave jostles fear up through spine. Dawn brightens water into dirty steel. Clouds thin enough for pale sun to bleed through.
“Where are we going?” I ask finally, voice hoarse.
“A place that won’t cry at sight of you,” he answers. “Or me.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It isn’t.”
He doesn’t elaborate. The silence stretches long, broken only by sea slapping hull and oar dipping rhythmically. My mind drifts again to Father—rotting in a dark dungeon, waiting for rescue that might never come. Guilt crushes the chest until breathing hurts.
After what feels like endless hours, dark shapes rise in the distance. Buildings. Masts. Smoke from chimneys.
The shoreline is cluttered with docks like crooked teeth biting into the sea.
Closer now, I see sails patched with mismatched cloth, flags painted with skulls, serpents, knives. Men with blades laugh too loud at nothing. Women with daggers in garters lean against tavern posts, eyes sharp as broken glass.
The air reeks of rum, fish rot, sweat.
A pirate port.
Terror stings up the spine like a nettle. I grip the boat edge. “No. Absolutely not.”
Alaric ignores me, guiding us between larger ships. A man with gold teeth throws a slop over the deck edge, nearly splashing us. Someone whistles at me. Another yells to Alaric, “Stormborne lives! Thought you fed crabs by now!”
Alaric raises hand lazily in greeting. “Disappointed?”
Drunken laughter erupts nearby. Someone spits into sea.
We dock at lowest pier. Rope creaks. Alaric steps out, offering no hand to help. I climb out myself, unsteady, feet slipping on slimy wood. My dress—still torn and filthy—marks me as an outsider instantly. Nobility doesn’t belong here.
My hair tangled, salt-stiff. My hands raw and bleeding.
Alaric’s eyes skim me. “You’ll get us killed dressed like royal charity.”
He scans the pier, then tugs me by wrist toward a narrow alley where clotheslines droop between posts. Dresses hang like ghosts, skirts fluttering.
Alaric doesn’t hesitate—he grabs a dark corset top and rough brown skirt, tossing them toward me.
My face heats. “You expect me to steal?”
He arches brow. “You planning to pay in tears?”
I grit teeth.
He turns his back, but only partly—watching the corner of his eye to ensure I don’t run, or maybe for amusement.
My hands tremble as I pull the wet gown over my head. Cold wind bites skin. I feel exposed and small. I scramble into stolen clothes—itchy fabric, coarse seams scraping ribs. A leftover lace ribbon dangles where the bodice doesn’t quite fit.
Alaric turns. His gaze flicks down, lingering a second too long. “Better. You look less like a walking ransom note.”
Humiliation burns my throat. “I hate this.”
“Good.” He adjusts a stolen coat onto his shoulders with maddening ease. “Hate keeps you alive here.”
We step into the main street.
Chaos hits like a hammer. Fight breaks out right in front of us—two men grappling, rolling through mud. A woman laughs, stepping over them without pause. Children dart between legs, pockets full from theft.
A tavern door slams open, a drunk pirate thrown into dirt. He stands, grinning with two teeth missing, and staggers after the woman who hit him.
My heart races. I try to hold myself tall like a noblewoman, chin lifted. But every scream, every blade glint pushes me smaller.
Alaric walks through it like he’s strolling through the garden path. People part for him; some whisper his name like curse, some like legend. One kneels briefly, fist over heart. Recognition is thick in air—Stormborne the lost king.
He ignores them all.
I hurry to keep up, nearly tripping over the barrel. A man with an eyepatch grabs my arm. “Fresh catch, eh?”
Before the scream rises, Alaric’s knife is at his throat. “Touch her again and I’ll use your ribs for deck nails.”
Eyepatch releases me fast. Alaric sheathes the blade casually, not even looking back.
“You could have thanked me,” he says.
“You caused it by bringing me here.”
He laughs deep in chest. “You blame everything on me. Convenient.”
“It’s always you at the center of disaster.”
“You’re the one who opened my cell.”
I open my mouth then shut it, furious he’s right.
We pass a stall where women carve fish with movements too quick to track. Another vendor sells charms made of bones and coins with holes. A man shouts prices for black powder and pistols. Smoke and spices fuse with salt in thick choking scent.
I cling to a memory of tea with Father—quiet room, crackling fire, sunlight on polished floor. I feel foolish now, fragile glass in a world made of iron.
Inside the tavern, rumors churn like waves. Alaric orders rum without asking if I want anything. He downs half in one swallow, wipes mouth on back of hand. I sit stiff on stool, hands folded like a child trying not to touch filth.
Two sailors argue nearby—words slurred, but one name cuts through noise like a blade.
“Rowan. They’ll hang him soon. Governor or not—prince wants spectacle.”
The world drops from beneath me.
I grip the table until the knuckles whiten. “What did he say?”
Alaric glances sideways but says nothing. The sailors continue, laughing over what execution crowd might throw.
“He saved me,” I whisper, voice strangled. “He raised me, protected me, loved me when I was not even his blood. They’ll kill him because of me.”
Alaric taps the glass against the table once. “Then get stronger before they do.”
“I’m trying,” I breathe. “But everything is chaos. I can’t even light a fire or catch a fish or—”
“You will learn,” he cuts in. “Or you’ll die. Both are quick paths.”
I glare. “Do you ever say anything that isn’t heartless?”
“I could lie sweet like noble weddings,” he says, tone razor. “Where men smile as they prepare your tomb.”
I flinch. The church flashes in memory—Adrian’s disgust, nobles recoiling. My gown bright and perfect until shame stained it.
A woman at the next table leans close. “Stormborne,” she purrs. “Thought the sea swallowed you. Who’s the girl? Ransom prize?”
“Annoyance,” he answers.
Heat crawls up my neck. “I am not your property.”
The woman laughs, eyes sharp. “Then why follow him like a puppy?”
I stand suddenly, chair scraping loud. “Because my father will die if I don’t find a way to save him. I don’t need your mockery—I need information. Who decides executions? Where is he held? How long until—”
She snorts. “Little dove thinks asking will save her daddy.” Then, voice low with pity that cuts deeper than scorn, “Executions for pirate relations happen fast. Prince wants a spectacle within a fortnight.”
A fortnight. Two weeks.
The tavern tilts. I grip edge, breathing too sharp. Alaric’s hand lands on my shoulder—heavy, grounding. “Sit.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. We plan next steps. Panic later.”
He pushes rum toward me. The smell is fire and rot. I refuse. He drinks instead, unfazed.
My vision sharpens through haze—every pirate in the tavern rough, laughing like violence is comfort. No lace. No music. No gold chandeliers. Only survival sharpened into culture.
I swallow hard. “I don’t belong here.”
“You belong nowhere now,” Alaric answers. “So choose where you’ll learn to stand.”
His words are cruel—but maybe not wrong.
If home rejects me and the sea hunts me and pirates laugh at me, then I must become something none expect. Something they cannot break.
My father has fourteen days.
I lift my chin with defiance and trembling. “Teach me then. Not to die. To fight.”
His slow smile is approval wrapped in threat. “Good.”
Outside the tavern, children chant sailor songs about kraken swallowing ships. A wave crashes hard against a dock like a beast breathing deep beneath.
The world I knew is gone. The one before me is raw and dangerous.
But for the first time—anger warms me more than fear.